


Leaving on a Jet Plane

by wendymr



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Drabble Series, Episode Related, M/M, Partings, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 21:10:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4320828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Course he’s entitled to a holiday. That’s not what bothers me. Where he’s going, what he’s doing... feels like he’s walking away from me. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leaving on a Jet Plane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ComplicatedLight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComplicatedLight/gifts).



> To ComplicatedLight: I'm sorry that you won't get to see this until the day after your birthday, but I didn't realise until this afternoon that it _was_ your birthday! Hope you enjoy the belated gift.
> 
> * * *

He’s dressed to travel, rucksack packed and walking boots on. He’s really going.

Course he’s entitled to a holiday. That’s not what bothers me. Where he’s going, what he’s doing... feels like he’s walking away from me. From everything, really: the job, his life here — and _me_.

It’s daft to feel like that, I know it is. He’s only going for a week. But it’s where he’s going and why. Some mission thing with his church friends. They’re getting a grip on him, pulling him away from the life he’s built for himself. Dragging him back to...

I’m losing him.

* * *

I insist on driving him to the station. I’d drive him to the airport if he’d let me, but he’s a stubborn bastard and has to do it his own way. Bus to Gatwick, and then a low-cost airline to Pristina. It’s not as if he can’t afford better; it’s what the mission’s organised. 

He’ll hate those cramped seats. No leg-room. He’ll be pissed off, tired and sulky by the time he gets there. That’s no way to start a holiday.

Lad needs a holiday, no doubt. Could have talked to me first, though. 

Could have gone away somewhere together.

* * *

The bus drives away as I stand and watch, gaze focused on that narrow face until I can’t see it any more.

Stupid, I tell myself as I get back into the car. It’s only a week. He’ll be back before I know it. Am I seriously thinking he’ll enjoy painting orphanages in Kosovo so much he’ll resign and sign up permanently with this volunteer group?

That’s not James. He’ll help out where he can, especially if someone’s guilted him into it, but he wouldn’t give up his career, his life here, for it.

At least, I hope he wouldn’t...

* * *

Why didn’t he tell me what he’d be doing on holiday? That’s the thing I don’t understand. 

He said he was going to Pristina, and that’s true. But he knows I think he’ll be sightseeing, walking, relaxing — typical tourist stuff, though with a James twist. Museums instead of nightclubs; ancient ruins instead of shopping. 

Why’s he so reluctant to let on he’ll be doing manual work instead? Is he afraid I’ll ridicule him, or feel sorry for him?

He’d be wrong either way. I’m angry... No, I’m worried. No, I...

Home’s left towards Marston. I keep going, towards the M40.

* * *

I catch up with the bus on the M25. I could use the siren and pull it over, but I can imagine Innocent’s reaction. Instead, I stay level all the way to Gatwick.

I’m leaning against the bonnet of the BMW, arms folded, as James steps off the bus. He stares, bewildered. “Did I forget something, sir? 

“Yeah.” I walk towards him. “You did. Me.”

“I’m... sorry? I don’t understand.”

That’s okay. I didn’t until under two hours ago. “It’s simple. Forget painting in Pristina. Come home wi’ me.”

Bluntly, “Why?”

I hold out my hand. “It’s where you belong.”

* * *

Later, James looks at me, dazed, hair rumpled, lips swollen. “Not that I’m complaining, but why now?”

I shrug. “Couldn’t let you leave me, could I?”

“I’d have come back,” he protests. “Told you I wasn’t joining the Foreign Legion.”

“Might’s well have been.” I guide him backwards to lie prone on the couch, then shove up his T-shirt. He shivers at my touch. “Made me realise why I didn’t want you to go.”

“On...” I draw my finger down his chest. “...holiday?”

“Anywhere. Without me.”

He surges up, kisses me. “Consider me yours to command.”

“Yes.” He is. “Mine.”

* * *


End file.
